This is a copy of the famous Courier Journal Magazine article about Frank Haddad by Bob Hill. It does not do it justice without the pictures but it is a great article that captures Frank's personality well. 

Don    

 
Article 97 of 240  SCENE  CRIME DOES PAY; IT HAS PAID FRANK HADDAD JR . PRETTY WELL, FOR DEFENDING POLITICIANS AND POLLUTERS, ROCK STARS AND REPROBATES, MURDERERS AND MISCREANTS.

BOB HILL   10/31/1992  The Courier-Journal Louisville, KY 

FRANK HADDAD JR. tells a good story. His voice is a lawyer's weapon; hypnotic, soothing, perfectly modulated, an almost-physical force that holds you in place.  Occasionally, his stories go on too long, the listener held hostage to Haddad's steady gaze, his slow pace, his astounding memory and his bone-deep compulsion to answer a question as thoroughly as possible. There is a Jack Benny quality to his delivery, the pause for effect; the stories often ending with Haddad laughing at himself.  He is a wonderful mimic of lawyers and judges, holding his own court in the various and crowded halls of justice, even doing a funny little dance as he acts out a story, lips pursed, hands tugging at his pants as if the water was a little too deep for everybody concerned.  His voice is the perfect messenger for his strengths: loyalty, preparation, hard work. It gives courtroom presence to the otherwise short, rounded, self-effacing, owlish-looking man who has played the defense- attorney lead in "Louisville Law" for 40 years, the man his peers invariably label "the lawyer's lawyer."  "Watching Frank make an argument before a jury," said fellow attorney Sheryl Snyder, former president of the Kentucky Bar Association, "is like listening to Frank Sinatra sing in a saloon."  The story Haddad was telling went right to the heart of his enduring mystique, his reputation as the defense attorney to have in times of deep personal trouble -- especially among the rich and famous.  About 10 or 12 years ago, he said, he was in English, Ind., defending a man accused of murdering his wife and her boyfriend as they sat in a pickup truck. The judge had just finished questioning potential jurors, then asked if there was anything else that might disqualify them. A big man, a man who looked like the guy on the Mr. Clean bottle, stood up right in the middle of the jurors already selected and pointed a finger at the defendant:  "Yeah, Judge, there is something I want to say. I used to live in Jeffersonville, and I don't blame that fella there for getting Frank Haddad. If I was him and I was guilty, I'd hire Frank Haddad too."  There it is. The phrase that's joked about in law offices, bandied about in newsrooms and often believed as gospel in the community: "If you're guilty, get Haddad."  Although it comes with certain laudatory implications -- Listen, Ol' Frank could even get the Devil off with two years' probation -- the phrase is obviously not always true. It can even get in the way of the man's work.

"Sometimes I'll even have to ask the jury that question myself," said Haddad. "It depends on the makeup of the jury, but sometimes I'll have to say, `You know, ladies and gentlemen, there are some people in this community who like to say, `If you're guilty, get Frank Haddad to defend you.' Do any of you feel that way?"  Haddad has had jurors excused for saying yes. On one occasion a man stood up and said, yes, his first thought on seeing Haddad was that his client must be guilty.  "I told him he was an honest guy, and we were going to keep him on the jury," Haddad said. "We got an acquittal."  Add instinct to the Haddad package, a knack for sizing up jurors that has led to acquittals -- or reduced sentences -- in cases where a first reading of the evidence might seem to indicate otherwise.  "I've never kept track of how well I've done," Haddad said, "but my batting average is pretty high."  Haddad does suffer his losses -- although it is hard to define winning or losing in criminal cases, where a 15-year sentence can be read as victory or defeat. In early October he represented retired Louisville police Capt. Larry Ogle and longtime gambling figure James Beasley as they pleaded guilty to a long list of federal gambling charges. Each man received 33 months in prison, but the maximum penalties could have been 300 years.  In September, another Haddad client, former Kentucky state Sen. Helen Garrett, pleaded guilty to taking a $2,000 bribe from a racetrack owner, with sentencing set for Nov. 16; Haddad had said at the time of Garrett's arrest that she believed the bribe to be a "consulting fee."  Politicians, police officers and polluters, rock stars and reprobates, murderers and miscreants, Haddad has defended them all in a career that reflects the changes that have gradually reshaped the role of defense lawyer.

High-profile courtroom drama has given way to a legal world of exhaustively researched briefs, appeals and motions. The increasing numbers of cases and changes in sentencing procedures have meant that more cases are settled out of court.  "It's a lot different game today, not nearly as much fun as it used to be," Haddad said.  At the same time, 40 years of law practice have brought material comfort to a man who grew up the son of a Lebanese immigrant in the family meat business in Louisville's old Haymarket.  Haddad still lives in the same brick house he and his wife bought 37 years ago, a home with a small American flag stuck through the wrought-iron railing near the front door. But he and some partners recently paid more than $4 million for the Kentucky Home Life Building, where Haddad's career began in a 7-by-10-foot office in 1952 -- and a partner estimated the combined net worth of their downtown property holdings at about $15 million.

IF THERE IS a complaint about Frank Haddad, it's that over the years he has built up too much rapport with local and federal judges. He has worked their legal and political sides so well, he is so prepared, so likable, so willing to help his friends in the legal profession in a pinch that some say he has a built-in advantage any time he steps in a courtroom -- especially against a young lawyer.  It's an odd criticism, that he's "too effective," and it's one that underscores the Haddad chemistry brewed through years of hard work and accumulated good will.  "They just don't get any better than Frank," said Assistant Commonwealth's Attorney Joe Gutmann, a 10-year-veteran prosecutor who often has faced Haddad in court. "With his reputation, if Frank Haddad says it's snowing outside in the middle of July, you don't have to go to a window to see. . . .  "He's smooth as silk. He puts everybody at ease. I want to learn from that. I want to be as good as Frank Haddad."  Every one of a dozen lawyers and former judges interviewed said no one works harder on a case, is more honest or professional in his dealings or comes into court better prepared than Frank Haddad.  Laurence J. Higgins, former commonwealth's attorney, former chief judge of the Circuit Court and a man who sat in judgment of cases Haddad had in his court, said, "Frank Haddad is the best criminal lawyer I've ever seen. He's highly informed on the law and prepares the best cases of any lawyer I've ever seen. When he walks into court, he knows every possible fact on the case. There's no trickery whatsoever. His technique is being prepared."  Haddad is so well versed on legal issues that other lawyers frequently use him as an "ethical sounding board." There are times when judges -- most of whom he knew as practicing lawyers -- call him for advice on a particular point.

Yet Haddad denies any advantage in that.  "A lot of times in real close questions it goes against you because the judge doesn't want to be accused of showing favoritism," he said.  Haddad can be a power broker. He does get politically involved. In 1983 he helped form a political action committee to endorse all 14 incumbent judges up for re-election. The committee was formed to oppose another lawyer's group that was supporting only nine incumbents.  Last year the family of a man who was fatally punched on a basketball court complained that William Knopf, the Jefferson Circuit Court judge in the trial, should have disqualified himself because the defendant was represented by Haddad, who was co-chairman of Knopf's re-election campaign. The family complained that the 2 1/2-year suspended sentence and five years' probation for Haddad's client, Ronald Keen, was too lenient and that Haddad's connection to Knopf was part of the reason.  But it is legal for lawyers to support judges in elections in Kentucky -- and it is common. Knopf said he had 210 lawyers on his re-election committee; Haddad had served as a co-chairman in five previous campaigns. Aware of the family's complaints before the sentencing, Knopf said he had invited the prosecutor and the family's attorney to challenge him on the matter, but they didn't.  Haddad said there are no legal or ethical rules that prohibit him from supporting any judges, including Knopf.  "Let's face it," he said, "judges know the use of my name is going to help them because I have a good reputation in the community. "As far as the Knopf situation, I knew his father and I've known Billy since he was a little kid of 10 or 11 years old. When they ask you, it's kind of hard to say 'no'."  Contrary to the public perception, most of Haddad's considerable income comes from civil cases, such as medical malpractice, rather than the high-profile criminal cases that seem to beat a path to his door in the Kentucky Home Life Building, where his 15-lawyer firm operates.  But no other lawyer in Kentucky is so consistently linked with the kind of criminal cases that you can't wait to read about in your morning newspaper. No other defense lawyer spends as much time on courthouse steps looking into a television camera while shielding his client from reporters' questions. No one else has a personal court docket that reads so much like the guest list for "Geraldo."  Wealthy doctors, pharmacists, drug dealers, thieves and extortionists, two cops who shot and killed a nude man, the husband of a former Kentucky governor, fellow lawyers in trouble and businessmen charged with air and water pollution all went to Frank Haddad.  An architect charged with the bloody murder of his wife, a man who showered the General Electric plant with 30,000 leaflets and has now lived 34 years on Kentucky's death row, and dozens of poor people looking for a free shoulder to cry on have all found Haddad.  Most recently he has represented Fred C. Rainey, a once-prominent Elizabethtown, Ky., doctor who was placed on "shock probation" for several sex crimes; Louisville lawyer Robert Zeman, convicted of trying to obstruct justice in a major cocaine case; and Nelson Miller, chairman of Louisville- based Cowger & Miller, who paid a $25,000 fine for illegally accepting a mortgage-broker fee.

None of those cases equaled the publicity he received representing singer Donnie Wahlburg of New Kids on the Block, who two years ago was required to make a public-service announcement on fire safety as part of a plea bargain on a criminal mischief charge after he dumped vodka on a carpet and set it afire in the Seelbach Hotel.  Where did they all come from? What keeps them coming?  "I don't know," said Haddad, who does know, and, in fact, takes great pride in his "top-gun" status. "I guess it's because of my high batting average."

 
HE WAS BORN 64 years ago -- June 23, 1928 -- above the family meat market on Jefferson Street in Louisville's old Haymarket district. He was the oldest of three children born to Frank Haddad Sr., a Lebanese immigrant who married Clara Gallo, a young Italian girl he had met in her family's bakery.  Frank Sr. had quit high school after one year. He went on to become a self-educated man, a student of Greek mythology and the classics, but he never lost his edge.  "My father was tough," said Frank Jr. "Not abusive, but he wouldn't take anything off anybody."  Once, when a union picketed his meat market, threatening and bumping customers, Haddad said his father wouldn't stand for it.  "He went outside, broke the jaw of one of the pickets and chased another one down the street. He got arrested for doing it, but he just wouldn't take it."  The Haymarket was a lively, exotic place, filled with sights, sounds and flavor of newcomers trying to make it in America -- with some of Louisville's toughest bars just down the street. It was a mix Haddad remembers fondly, a clientele he has never forgotten; he's a past president of the Louisville Legal Aid Society -- and still one of its top fund-raisers.

He also fought strongly for Kentucky's first public-defender laws and remains supportive of that office.  "One of Frank Haddad's greatest strengths is that he hasn't forgotten where he came from," said Dan Goyette, head of the Jefferson County Public Defender's Office."  Haddad played sandlot football and baseball for the Neighborhood House at First and Liberty streets. He learned to cut meat in the family store, working there at nights and on weekends.  "I learned early what it meant to work," he said.  He went to Male High School, where -- as was always with Haddad -- his grade-point average was no indicator of his future success.  "I've never been a good student," he said, "never on the A level. But Male was tough. I got into the University of Louisville night school first semester and day school the second semester, and my first year of college was an absolute repeat of my senior year at Male . . . same courses, same books, some of the same professors."

 
He'd gotten into U of L after a family friend, a lawyer named Ed Paul, had petitioned its liberal arts school for his admittance. But Haddad didn't have a clue about what he wanted to be. He felt a nudge toward law when, as an undergraduate, he read "The Great Mouthpiece," a book about Bill Fallon, a famous criminal-defense lawyer of the 1920s.  But there was a more practical reason law looked good.  "At that time," said Haddad, "law school was the only professional school I could get into with two years of scrap courses in liberal arts."  His contemporaries at U of L law school included Marlow Cook, who became a U.S. senator; Louie Nunn, who became a Kentucky governor; and William Mulloy Sr., who would become a lifelong friend and business partner.  Haddad had begun dating JoAnn Seymour, then 17, whose family lived in a working-class flat near Fourth Street and the Ohio River, a teen-ager whose father had helped build the massive Colgate clock across the river. Frank Jr. and JoAnn would marry in 1954.  Meanwhile, Haddad was working 50 to 60 hours a week in the meat market, studying law when he could catch a break, still unsure where it would lead.  "I didn't even know what kind of law I wanted to practice until they dropped me in the pit over at the courthouse and I started getting those criminal cases," he said.  When Haddad graduated from law school in 1952, there were no public defenders. Judges appointed young lawyers to defend indigent clients -- the rewards often more educational than financial.  "We got no pay, no expenses, not even parking-meter money," Haddad said. "Sometimes I even paid out of my own pocket because 99 and 44/100th percent of my clients had no money. All you got was the cadavers to work on, like a medical school student."  He defended his first client -- a man charged with five counts of carnal knowledge of an underage female -- on Sept. 22, 1952. Haddad noticed that the prosecutor had forgotten to prove the female's age in court. He asked for a directed acquittal -- there was no case unless the female's age was legally established -- and he got it.  Haddad's next client was charged with holding up a poker game. The defendant had lost all his money, gone home and gotten a weapon, then returned to the game carrying the only sure thing in poker -- a loaded shotgun.  "I found an old Kentucky case decided in 1911," Haddad said. "It said the title of the money never really passed to the other players in a poker game because poker was illegal; the defendant was taking back his own money. I got another directed verdict."

 
The Haddad pattern was established -- and he has stayed with it:  "That was the beginning of my reputation for being a good, smart criminal attorney who will go to the books and win cases based on the law . . . which was rare around here at that time.  "The publicity also brought me a lot of civil cases, a lot of automobile accidents and some divorces. That's when my civil practice really began to grow." 

 
DEFENSE LAWYERS often have one very serious public-relations problem: They are judged by the company they keep. They represent people the public labels crooks, thieves or child molesters even before their trials. A "legal technicality" that frees the accused or delays a trial or prison term will often anger people. Yet Haddad and lawyers like him maintain that it is their ethical and moral responsibility to protect a defendant's constitutional rights.  Those differing perceptions go to the heart of the question most asked of defense attorneys: How can you defend a rapist or murderer you know is guilty?  It's not that simple, according to Haddad.  "A person is only guilty when a jury finds him guilty," he said. "Under our laws, we don't have the right to reach that conclusion ourselves. You have to see guilt or innocence in legal terms. It's hard for people to conceive that a person's guilt must be determined according to rules of law."  What about people he helped to free -- and later learned were guilty?  "That's never happened to me," he said.

"I have no Mel Ignatow experiences."  Obviously tunnel vision is very important in practicing law. An attorney is never allowed to reveal what a client tells him. If a client admits his guilt in private before the trial, Haddad will try to determine how strong a case the prosecution can make without the defendant testifying. If it's a strong case, he will try to negotiate a plea.  "If a client tells me he is guilty and still insists on testifying, the rules say I can put him on the stand and he will make a statement. But I cannot participate in the questioning of him," he said.  In a case in which a client is freed -- but the lawyer later receives information from a source other than the client that he may be guilty, Haddad said the "prevailing view" is that information must be given to authorities.  Haddad's ability to focus brings him -- and his firm -- more business than it can handle.  His rates range from $150 to $300 an hour, plus, in some cases, a fixed fee. In criminal cases, his fixed fees have been as high as $200,000, and one antitrust suit that went on for 18 months earned him about $300,000 before expenses.  The criminal cases bring in the heavy publicity, but the civil suits bring in the heavy money; he was among a team of lawyers who settled a medical-malpractice suit for $6 million; the lawyers' fees in such cases often account for about one-third of the settlement.

 
His income has allowed Haddad to become a partner in downtown Louisville investments that include nine large parking lots and garages, the old Jim Cooke auto dealership property on Third Street, and two office buildings.  William Mulloy Sr., one of his partners, estimated the property's value at $15 million, but Haddad said they didn't have nearly that much money invested, and there were "many, many mortgages" to pay off.  Haddad also said the list of charities he gives to is so long it would cover three pages -- single-spaced. He gives from $50 to $3,000 to each, a favorite being the United Way.  "I give to everybody," said Haddad, who belongs to Second Presbyterian Church. "I give to the holy rollers, Baptists, Catholics . . . everybody."  Haddad said there are cases he does not like to handle:  "Child-abuse cases, the physical-type cases where they torture the kid, burn him with cigarettes or dip him down in hot water. I don't handle those kinds of cases because I fear that I won't be able to give the defendants my best." 

Haddad's label as a "lawyer's lawyer" comes in part because he represents more lawyers involved in disciplinary procedures with the Kentucky Bar Association than anyone else.  His long legal resume includes lecturing extensively on ethics and being past president of the Louisville Bar Association, the Kentucky Bar Association and the National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers -- where friends include courtroom stars such as F. Lee Bailey.  "The strength or weakness of the disciplinary case is not a factor in whether I'll take it," he said. "If it's an old friend, I'll take it. A lot of times I'll be able to mitigate a violation in hopes the punishment will be less. A lot of times we've won cases just by asking to reconsider or dismiss a charge."

PERHAPS THE MOST unusual fact in Haddad's resume is that he is a Republican. He came by his party affiliation honestly; his father, who once also was Louisville housing director, was a staunch Republican. Yet the Republican Party is not one traditionally linked with some of Haddad's strongest beliefs -- broad individual rights for the accused, better rehabilitation of prisoners, the unfairness of mandatory federal sentencing guidelines -- not to mention his worry that George Bush's judicial appointments have pushed the courts too far to the right.  "My thinking politically is pretty much along Republican lines," Haddad said, "but not the ultra-conservative, more the Eisenhower Republican. I could probably be a very moderate Democrat without too much trouble, but it may be hard to get over the peak of calling myself that."  Saying his fellow Republicans pushed him into the races to give them a strong candidate, Haddad ran for the Louisville Board of Alderman in 1955 and for commonwealth's attorney in 1957.  "Fortunately," he said dryly, "I got beat."  In 1972 he considered running for mayor of Louisville but said he would do so only if the Republican Party threw all its support to him before the election -- more classic Haddad preparedness. The party opted for an open primary, so he didn't run.  Haddad concentrated on law -- working his way through some of the most memorable court cases in Louisville history -- the first was the 1958 case of Henry Anderson, who at 76 has now served more time on death row than any other prisoner in U.S. history.

Anderson, a brilliant, unstable man, had earned a law degree from Notre Dame but took a job as a tool-and-die maker at General Electric. He was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic by Dr. Ernest Terry Jr., the company doctor, who suggested that Anderson be dismissed. Anderson retaliated by flying a plane 50 feet over the company, pelting it with 30,000 leaflets accusing GE executives of conspiring against him. Later, on a Sunday morning outside Highland Presbyterian Church, Anderson shot Terry to death in front of many witnesses.  Anderson was tried three times for the murder. Haddad -- using an insanity defense over Anderson's strong objections -- got a hung jury in the first trial. In the other two trials Anderson defended himself, getting another hung jury in the second but the death sentence after the jury found him guilty in the third trial.  After long and complex appeals -- and the intervention of Chief Justice Earl Warren, who spared Anderson from the electric chair -- Anderson remains alive in the Kentucky State Penitentiary at Eddyville.

Frank Haddad's brother, Robert, a partner in his brother's firm, remembered one more detail from that case.  "The heck of it was that Frank could imitate so many people so well that when he got a call from Chief Justice Warren he thought somebody was pulling a joke on him. He had to be sternly reminded he was talking to the Chief Justice of the United States."  In 1971 Frank Haddad was involved in what he calls the most bitter loss of his career; the highly publicized trial of William Banton Moore, a Louisville architect charged with murdering his wife.  The circumstantial case against Moore was very strong; he and his wife had been drinking and arguing and had discussed divorce; all the doors and windows to the house were locked from the inside; the victim, Louisa Moore, was found dead in the family bathroom. There was blood all over the walls, ceiling, bathtub and commode and a flap of scalp hanging down from her head.  "Our defense was that she had fallen and fractured her skull," Haddad said. "We had two expert pathologists testify that the death had to be as a result of the fall. Our contention was she was on painkiller drug that, combined with alcohol, led to wild actions so that she fell and evulsed (tore out) her own scalp."  The prosecutor -- a longtime and respected Haddad foe named Carl Ousley - - said he would ask for the death penalty. Moore was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to 21 years.  "That was odd in a way," Haddad said. "The photos of the crime scene were so horrible that if the jury thought he had killed her it should have given him the electric chair.  "Losing hurts me. I hate to lose more than anything else in the world."  In one of his last acts as governor, Wendell Ford commuted Moore's sentence after the architect had served about 19 months.  Sometimes, it's not whether you win or lose; it's how long it takes to play the game.

Haddad defended Donald Distler, who was found guilty by a federal jury in 1978 of discharging toxic chemicals into the Ohio River that sickened about 34 workers at the city's sewage treatment plant and caused the Metropolitan Sewer District to discharge 100 million gallons of raw sewage into the river every day for three months.  Haddad took Distler's appeal through various motions so long and expertly that Distler wasn't finally ordered to prison until 1982 -- a period of freedom similar to ones he's built for many other clients over the years, both before and after the case goes to court.  "Frank does use delay tactics a lot," said Joe Whittle, an assistant U.S. attorney, "but if they are permitted by the law, or by an overgenerous judge, that's not Frank's fault."  Yet Haddad also will argue that it's not the severity of punishment that best deters crime, it's "the certainty you're going to get caught and the swiftness of the punishment."  He sees the conflict there -- but thinks it somewhat inevitable.

"Look at the Bill Collins case," he said, referring to a recent client, the husband of former Kentucky Gov. Martha Layne Collins. Bill Collins was indicted this year on charges of extortion, obstruction of justice and tax fraud.  "The government has been working on this Collins case four years. Three grand juries have accumulated evidence. We know a little bit about it since we've been interviewing witnesses too, but they're ready to try the case beginning tomorrow, and I've got to have time to backtrack and get as much discovery as possible. . . .  "Oh, yeah, you need time."  No case better illustrated Haddad's preparation, his willingness to work 60 to 70 hours a week, than his defense in the Robert Frost murder case.  Frost was charged with killing Robert Allen Keyer, his partner in the Hoffman Lighting Co. in St. Matthews, in 1974. Keyer had been shot five times with a gun similar to one Frost had just purchased -- although the murder weapon was never found.  Then -- as now -- Haddad kept a file of magazines, periodicals and law journals relating to crimes and criminal law. Before calling in an expert witness on handwriting, Haddad will study handwriting for hours. He takes great pride in his ability to question, to be clear and precise with a jury, to slowly construct his case with his witnesses while raising "reasonable doubts" about the prosecution's.  "That case," said Haddad, a little fondly, "had every conceivable scientific evidence you could think of -- ballistics, dirt samples, blood samples -- it had everything."  In his closing argument, Haddad slowly, patiently went over the crucial time elements. The prosecutor delivered a passionate, almost fire-and- brimstone argument. The jury -- out two days -- acquitted Frost.  Haddad hasn't seen nearly as many high-profile trials recently. In fact, he hasn't had a jury trial in almost 10 months. There have been bench trials, guilty pleas, briefs, appeals and motions -- all of them as legally valuable as any courtroom drama -- but no real clashes with practiced adversaries, something he misses, something he sounds wistful about.  "I love the competition," he said. "I like to try cases against experienced prosecutors because I know their tricks, I know their angles, and I can lay a lot of traps for them.  "Years ago there was less television, the courtrooms were bigger and the people came down to see the big trials. It was more the atmosphere of a trial . . . of combat."

 
If this were a movie you might cut to Frank Haddad -- the aging, honorable, warrior -- riding off into the sunset to go swap tales with the old legal hands who really knew what a good fight was all about.  Only Frank Haddad isn't leaving. He doesn't believe the caliber of his legal competition is as sharp or well-prepared as his old foes. He does get irritated with eager, young prosecutors who seem to want to pursue a case in court just to take a shot at his "top-gun" status.  His office paperwork is 30 times what it was when he began. His administrative duties take their toll; he says he constantly turns down requests from lawyers who want to join his firm. But he has no thought of retiring. There has never been anything else he'd really like to do -- and he has no regrets about where's he has been.  "I made up my mind when I began I was never going to let the practice of law bother me," he said. "I don't worry about it. I have no trouble falling asleep at night."  Haddad relaxes at home, where he is almost every evening.

 
He enjoys cooking barbecue dinners, a holdover from his days in the meat market. His homemade seasonings -- a mix of peppers and oils -- are frequent gifts to his friends. He remains very close to his two children, Frank III, a patrolman with the Jefferson County Police Department, and Debra Ann, a paralegal who recently opened two small shops in downtown buildings. When schedules permit, they share dinner on Sunday afternoons.  "Frank's very much a homebody," said his wife, JoAnn. "He's always been an easy man to live with."  On Sunday mornings Frank Haddad indulges his other passion -- fishing. On a recent weekend, Haddad and a regular fishing partner, Ron Hillerich, a lawyer in Haddad's firm, were easing around a well-stocked private lake in a small aluminum boat.  Hillerich is the son of a man who once worked as an investigator for Haddad. Hillerich's brother, Gary, also works for the law firm. Haddad made it a point to give them jobs as law clerks, then hire them after graduation.  Haddad, always a neat, somber dresser in court, looks like a man who fell through a Kmart on the way to the lake: green-and-white fishing cap, blue jacket, khaki pants and brown shoes.  He catches a few bass -- none worth keeping -- but between casts, Haddad begins talking about W. Clarke Otte, a legendary prosecutor in the 1930s and '40s. Haddad said Otte sent 43 people to the electric chair, then changed sides to the defense and won 17 consecutive capital-punishment cases.  "Oh, he was great," said Haddad, his voice floating over the lake. "In those days there might be 300 to 400 people in the criminal courtroom to hear Otte give a final argument.  "He was a powerful, passionate man, good at quoting the Bible. I remember one time he talked for 90 minutes and had the jury in the palm of his hand the whole time. . . . He's the best."  Hillerich, shifting around at the other end of the boat, pointed a finger at Haddad.  "He's the best," Hillerich said.  Haddad didn't answer. A good lawyer knows when to keep his mouth shut.